


i hear your voice in silences

by wraysford



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraysford/pseuds/wraysford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on motorskink: "Two people get their phones mixed up.  One of them finds dozens of incriminating text drafts addressed to him in the other guy's phone that were never sent and were never intended to be sent." [<a href="http://motorskink.livejournal.com/3479.html?thread=1122455#t1122455">x</a>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	i hear your voice in silences

When someone had pressed a phone into his hand his first day at Toro Rosso, saying something vague about Red Bull Mobile sponsorship and publicity that really just meant it was free, Jean-Éric hadn’t thought much of it. He took the phone because it was new and free and his own was a little scratched, and that’d been it.

Of course, they’d given Dan one too. More specifically, they’d given Dan an _identical_ phone, right down to the silver Red Bull logo they’d engraved on the back.

It hadn’t really mattered, at least until he was in a cab on his way to Bologna Guglielmo Marconi Airport.

 

They’d been in a meeting in Faenza, the last before the next race weekend in Belgium. It was a final review of the improvements made over the summer break, the culmination of nearly a week’s work at the factory; at least, that's what they were told. More accurately, it’d been two hours of repetitive data and constant reassurance that the team were working as hard as they could, albeit all slightly undercut by the fact that everyone realistically knows neither of them is going to be on the podium any time soon.

Dan mostly behaves himself, and Jean-Éric is grudgingly impressed that he lasts as long as he does before getting bored and pulling out his phone. Scrolling through Twitter, probably, or else curating one of his unnecessarily thought-out playlists. Jean-Éric has been subjected to them on multiple occasions.

When he notices James doesn’t exactly reprimand Dan, because contrary to popular belief he isn’t actually a child, but he does roll his eyes at him. Dan grins messily at him but puts his phone down, sliding it onto the table and stretching out.

His knee knocks against Jean-Éric's under the table as he kicks his legs out. Jean-Éric shifts away automatically, but if Dan notices he doesn't comment.

The meeting doesn’t last for much longer after that, James finishing with a shrug and a wry smile. “Just do your best, boys,” he says, and then, “Oh, Daniel, the blokes down in marketing wanted to see you. Something about an advert.”

It’s probably bullshit. Jean-Éric knows Dan’s the one out of the two of them who Red Bull are really courting for the seat, the only one who really has any chance at all against Kimi and Fernando. They’re likely wanting to discuss potential contracts or something equally important and complicated; teams that've won the WCC three years in a row tend to work on the complicated side of things.

Dan grins again. “Sure, I’m used to being in demand,” he says lightly, and then glances at Jean-Éric. They’d planned to split a taxi back to the nearest airport – their flights aren’t for another three hours, in Jean-Éric’s case, or four in Dan’s – more for convenience than cost, as they’re not going to be the one’s paying for it anyway. It doesn’t really matter. “See you at Spa then, mate.”

There’s not much else to say. James has already disappeared back to the technical department with his laptop, and it’s just the two of them left. Last year they’d maybe have hugged, made promises to call and arrange something for before the race; this year Jean-Éric nods stiffly, picks his phone up off the table. “See you,” he echoes, uncertainly.

“Yeah,” says Dan. He’s looking at Jean-Éric a little strangely, but he doesn’t say anything more. They maintain eye contact for a few brief, awkward seconds before Dan raises his eyebrows and Jean-Éric hastily mutters something about missing his flight before leaving.

 

Because, unlike Dan, Jean-Éric isn’t surgically attached to his phone, it isn’t until he’s settled into the cab and is well on his way to the airport that he realises the one in his hand isn’t his.

He’d been planning on texting one of his friends back home; his flight gets in mid-afternoon and he’s in the mood for a night out, itching to relax after a week of statistics and simulators and awkward, stilted conversation with his too-cheerful teammate and overly-focused engineers.

It’s not going to happen now. His first thought when he’d turned the phone on and seen the background, a blurry gig shot, was that Dan had changed it just to irk him. It’s unlikely – they don’t pull those kind of pranks on one another anymore, not when civil conversation is all Jean-Éric really provides, plus he can't recall ever having left his phone unattended with Dan about – but the idea's certainly more plausible than anything else he can come up with, so it’s what he opts for.

That idea goes entirely out of the window when he unlocks it and is immediately greeted by a barrage of emails. The topmost one informs him that Andy Murray is eagerly anticipating the US Open; the next few are from a variety of bizarrely named bands, all advertising album releases or concert tickets.

Okay, so either Dan was really thorough with this prank or this isn’t his phone.

It’s not his phone.

A number of thoughts rapidly flick through his mind: firstly, _of course_ Dan doesn’t have a password on his phone, Aussies really are too relaxed, and secondly, this is the last thing he needs when he’s tired and stressed. He’d wanted to forget about Dan, forget about the team for as long as he can before he can’t anymore. The third thing he thinks is _shit._ They’re practically at the airport, he can see it around the next bend, and it’s too far to go back. His flight’s in under an hour now. Dan’ll have had to rearrange his.

There’s nothing he can do about it, at least for now. He figures Dan’ll call when he realises the mix-up.

When the cab drops him off the airport is crowded. It’s mid-August, and people are jetting off on their holidays or returning; there’s more than a handful of lobster-red families speaking in obnoxiously loud American and British accents, lugging around far too much baggage. One mother is arguing with a steward who appears to be asking her, politely, to please put something on over her bikini. Her children look appropriately mortified.

Jean-Éric checks in and deposits his luggage in a blur, glad no one approaches him. He doesn’t get recognised that often unless it’s a race weekend or he’s in a big city, and even then they usually just want a quick photograph or an autograph. It must be _impossible_ being Sebastian or Lewis, he thinks, never mind Michael; Jean-Éric’s glad he doesn’t warrant that kind of attention. He grabs a sandwich from one of the bistros - it’s lunchtime, and he’s been living off Italian food for the week, not his favourite – and pays the sleepy-eyed boy at the counter absentmindedly.

He turns the phone off on the flight.

 

France is bright and sunny when his flight gets in. Nobody meets him at the airport, because he hasn’t asked anyone to, and he takes another cab back home. He doesn’t feel like trying to navigate the bus station.

It’s strangely comforting just to hear the same low lull of French accents around him, so familiar and easy after the incessant Italian and James’ deep Brit, a certain Aussie drawl. He lets the cabbie keep up an inane chatter, his own language feeling a little unfamiliar on his tongue when he gives short replies.

Jean-Éric lets himself into his flat and throws his bags down in the doorway. He showers until he feels the tension slip from his shoulders.

Afterwards he gets dressed – in something that isn’t emblazoned with a bull, for once – and runs a hand through his hair as he glances in the mirror. He goes out and gets drunk and doesn’t once think about racing.

 

He wakes up mid-morning in his own bed, with a mouth that tastes like shit and a banging headache.

 _Good,_ he thinks, rolls over and goes back to sleep.

 

Jean-Éric wakes up again just after noon. He’s right on the edge of his bed, sheets tangled up around his legs.

Ignoring his limbs' protestations he sits up, stretching his arms over his head and pulling the duvet covers around his waist. He’s still in last night’s jeans and shirt, rumpled and sweaty.

He rubs halfheartedly at his eyes with the heel of his hand; they feel gritty and sore. It’s been a while since he woke up like this, struggling to remember the previous night’s events and gagging to wash the taste of stale alcohol out of his mouth. But then he figures this is what normal 23-year-olds are supposed to do; he’s lost track of the amount of times he’s had to turn down a night out with his friends because he’s got to fly here or there, got to stick on a gluten-free diet or do simulator work. It’s difficult to be _normal_ when you’re barely past university age and you’re already in the world’s most well-known racing series.

He vaguely recalls kissing some girl with long dark hair, dancing with another, someone daring him to drink just one more shot. Someone must have brought him home, too, because there’s no way he managed to catch a bus or a train in this state.

He ought to call and thank whichever of his friends it was. Jean-Éric picks up his phone off the nightstand, squints at it. Battery’s flat.

The charger is in his still-unpacked bag, and he pads through the kitchen and into the hallway. It’s at the top of his overnight bag, saving him the trouble of digging around for it, and he shoves it haphazardly into one of the kitchen plug sockets before heading off to clean his teeth and gulp down a bottle of vitamin water.

When he gets back into the kitchen the phone has charged enough to let him turn it on, and it’s only then that his hungover mind reminds him that, oh yeah, it isn’t his. Also, that Dan can’t actually call him to rectify the misunderstanding because Jean-Éric _does_ have the common sense to set a password on his phone. His flight back to Australia would’ve been long-haul, but even that would’ve gotten in by now.

So it’s down to him to do it.

He doesn’t feel up to calling, not when he’s not sure if he can open his mouth without vomiting. If anyone asks it’s cheaper to text.

Fuck it. Now’s as good a time as any, he’ll just fire off a quick text explaining the situation, apologise, and leave it at that. He leans his elbows on the kitchen counter and scrolls through the contacts until he finds his own name, exhaling softly when he finds that Dan still has him listed under Jev.

When he clicks it, and then the Message icon, a box flashes up onscreen that helpfully enquires if he’d like to send one of 48 drafts associated with this number. Jean-Éric frowns at the bright screen. He must’ve clicked the wrong name. Jemma would be right above him, of course; they’ll all be for her.

He clicks back.

It’s not an error. When he taps Jemma it takes him straight to the text screen, no preamble involving drafts.

Something strange stirs in Jean-Éric’s stomach as he opens his own number again, finger hovering uncertainly over the tiny icon of an envelope. It just doesn’t make sense, that’s why he feels so confused. There’s no reason for Dan to want to send him so many texts. They hardly speak outside of the garage or the factory, press conferences or the ridiculous field trips and joint interviews Toro Rosso occasionally insist on.

Curiosity – and the alcohol still thrumming in his veins – get the better of him. He clicks the icon and then YES on the following question, tapping his fingers impatiently against the counter whilst he waits for it to load.

The first unsent text, the newest one, is entirely innocent. It reads _hey, how’s your summer break going? It’s winter over here haha, see you soon_. It’s unexpected, but it’s not odd. If anything it’s just how they would’ve spoken last year, a casual question that would’ve prompted Jean-Éric to respond with a line or two about the good weather, his family, a terrible joke about being down under. Probably Dan intended to send it but lost signal, saved it and forgot. No harm done.

The next text is similar, friendly in tone, no more than _I’m older than you again! :D_ dated from Dan’s last birthday. (He can't remember if he texted to wish him a good day.) The message is childish but it’s still just Dan, gently taking the piss out of their age gap, out of something that doesn’t matter in the long run.

Jean-Éric is starting to think that they’ll all be like this, texts Dan merely forgot to send. They’ve been teammates for two years, after all, 48 texts could easily build up. He was stupid to think any more of it. He doesn’t even know what he was expecting from them, perhaps some angry rants or insults. They’d have been easy to deal with, if anything.

There’s no point reading them all, not if it’s just going to be like this, but even as he says that to himself he’s pressing the arrow to read the next – and his stomach _drops._

 _I miss you_ , it says. That’s it. No smiley face or joking remark to lighten it, just that one confession.

 _I miss you_.

And it hits Jean-Éric like a punch. It’s something they don’t talk about, not outside of brief remarks to the press. They don’t talk about the fact that they’re just not friends anymore, that they don’t go out together or chat or even really interact outside of what is required. They don’t mention what they’ve said about one another to a reporter, never try to discuss team orders. So even just reading this feels like trespassing to Jean-Éric, like cheating; it’s like he’s forcing Dan to be the one to face up to the issue, to finally admit to the elephant in the room so that he doesn’t have to do it himself. He’s the one with the upper hand now, could easily disparage Dan and scoff at his sensitivity. Say he’s not cut out for the sport.

He’s suddenly startlingly sober.

If Jean-Éric wanted to, he could use this evidence to belittle and bully Dan. He could make scornful remarks in the press about him being needy and childish, not taking his job seriously. If he really wanted to, if he really was determined, he could wreck Dan’s chances of ever taking that seat next to Sebastian; Red Bull don’t need two brats to deal with. He could paint himself as the yin to Seb and Dan’s yang, persuade Horner into giving him a shot. All thanks to three little words.

He doesn’t want to.

His breath is caught in his throat, because he knows that he misses Dan too.

It’s hard not to. God, he can be annoying sometimes, but he’s _Dan._ Annoying is practically his middle name. He’s excitable and funny and enthusiastic, always so enthusiastic about everything at least until his attention span runs out, and he seems to have unlimited energy even on the days that Jean-Éric can barely bring himself to get into the simulator. He listens to shitty loud music and shouts at sports matches on the television. He got wasted after their first race of the 2012 season and spent the entire trip back to the hotel muttering about Jean-Éric’s hair and how stupid it looked after he took his balaclava off. He likes to make terrible jokes and speak too fast and laugh at Jean-Éric’s accent. It all ought to be annoying; it’s endearing.

Oh god, this is so much more than Jean-Éric can cope with. He hasn’t admitted this much to himself since that interview where the reporter pushed a little too much and he ended up saying things he didn’t really mean. _I have my friends. I don’t need any more._

In hindsight his comments sound so petty, so unnecessarily mean. They’re both adults, they’re both big boys, but he’d just been so tired and stressed, jetlagged, and he’d barely thought about the words before they left his mouth. And then he’d read the article and seen how diplomatic Dan had come across as in comparison, and he’d felt like a complete asshole. He was a complete asshole.

Jean-Éric’s the one to blame for this mess, this constant _awkwardness_ and fragility between them, but Dan’s the one who ends up compensating for it.

Fuck. The phone screen has turned itself off during his struggle, and he turns it back on and scrolls across just to distract himself from his thoughts. Acts like his head isn't swimming.

The next text seems disjointed, nonsensical. He rereads it a few times, not sure if it’s not just his head still reeling, but it still makes no sense. All it says is _I’d let you, you know_. Somewhat belatedly, dazedly, Jean-Éric realises that perhaps he ought to have started reading them in reverse order. He clicks back through the few he’s already read until he gets to the very first, nearly a year and a half old.

Back then they’d just signed for Toro Rosso. He knew Dan through Red Bull Juniors, through watching him race with Hispania, through various events through the years. Dan was the kind of guy who left an impression.

The text says _hey teammate, ready to lose? ;)_ Okay, so they’re back to the innocent. It’s easier to focus on these than to try and make sense of what he’d read earlier. _Ready to lose?_  Dan was obviously trying out different approaches to first introduce himself across the phone, to establish a friendly rapport. Clearly he'd dismissed the slightly meaner text in favour of something more lighthearted.

The next few are all in the same vein, one or two race-specific, mentioning an afterparty or half-written and obviously hastily abandoned. There’s one that he remembers getting a variant of, congratulating him on his first points win. Nothing interesting; Jean-Éric can almost forget the earlier drama as he idly flicks through them. Everything’s quickly regaining normalcy, enough so that he takes a quick break to make himself a cup of coffee before continuing.

It's too bitter, coffee powder having gone a little stale in his absence, but it's caffeine. He thinks he needs it.

It takes another few before something interesting appears. This one says _Ha, that Spanish reporter was flirtin w you!_ Why it remains unsent is a mystery; Jean-Éric remembers her, and she hadn’t been at all subtle. She’d played with her hair and touched his chest and arms and laughed girlishly as she asked him inane questions about the car and the weather and his hotel, and Dan’d wandered past once or twice and raised his eyebrows. Afterwards she’d kissed him twice on the cheeks.

So he really doesn’t know why Dan didn’t send it, not until he clicks the next text. _I didn’t like it_

And, as quickly as he can, the one after that. _I want to be the only one to touch you like that_ , which is so completely insane and ridiculous that Jean-Éric automatically assumes he’s misread it. But he hasn’t, it’s completely real.

And what the _fuck_.

What the fuck?

It’s not the fact that a guy has basically admitted to having a crush on him. It's not, it really isn't; crushes are no big deal, when you travel as much as they do you fall in love with some stranger or other at least twice a week. He’s not going to have some big homosexual crisis. Jean-Éric hates to live up to stereotypes, but he’s French. He's got experience with men. Before Formula One, before people in the street occasionally went, _hey, aren't you that guy_ he'd picked up guys in clubs as often as he did girls. Sex is sex, crushes are crushes. It doesn’t matter at all that it’s a man, that it’s blatantly gay, it matters that it’s Dan.

Dan I’ve-got-a-girlfriend-and-also-I’m-your-teammate Ricciardo. That Dan. That Dan has a crush on him and wants to kiss him and touch his chest and whatever else, or so he assumes.

It could be that it’s a joke, but if it is it would’ve fallen flat; and besides, something tells him it’s serious. He knows somehow, intrinsically that Dan meant it. He genuinely was jealous. Dan was jealous. Jean-Éric’s getting repetitive, he knows, but this is way too much to process. Dan misses him and fancies him and alright, maybe the first isn’t surprising now that he knows the second, but this whole thing has just been one massive slap to the face so he thinks he’s entitled to be a little slow on the uptake.

Perverse curiosity makes him carry on reading. It’s a bad idea, it’s the worst fucking idea he’s had in years and he once tried flirting with his best friend’s girlfriend, but he presses on with the texts.

The date on the next one places it the day of the European Grand Prix. It’s hardly a day he wants to remember. It says _Your first dnf! Want me to cheer you up later? ;)_ and he can barely choke out a laugh because it’s so cheesy and predictable and fucking _cliché_ but also somehow so fucking heavy, because it implies so much that Jean-Éric hadn’t even thought about until now.

Before he even realises it he’s wondering what exactly Dan meant by cheer up, and optimistically seeking clarification clicks to the next text. To his surprise he gets it, in the form of _A nice blowjob always cheers me up, dunno if that’s just an Aussie thing_

And, well, the part of him that isn’t completely reeling is suddenly bombarded with mental images that he simultaneously does and doesn’t want, except he really does and oh, god, this is not going to end well. Not at all, and especially not if he keeps thinking about Dan pushing him into the nearest motorhome post-race, worked up and full of adrenaline. Dan on his knees and still in his racesuit, grinning up at him, nosing at the jut of his hip and murmuring, “This’ll cheer you up, promise,” in his stupid accent before tugging lightly at Jean-Éric’s waistband and –

Shit, he needs to stop thinking.

His cheeks are hot and his palms are sweaty, and he nearly jumps when the phone beeps to tell him that the battery is fully-charged and he can unplug it. With clumsy hands he tugs the charger free before pulling himself off the counter and into the living room.

The old sofa slumps under his weight when he throws himself onto it, sliding down the cushions and staring blankly at the opposite wall. _Fuck._

Were he a paradigm of restraint, he’d close down the drafts folder and call Dan, politely explaining the error and suggesting they rectify it at the race weekend. He wouldn’t mention the texts or the pining, the ideas for cheering him up. The awkwardness would remain, but it’d be better than the alternative. Dan would be non-the-wiser.

Jean-Éric is not, and never will be, a paradigm of restraint.

 

The texts are just getting dirtier.

He’s nearly halfway through the folder, and it’s quickly becoming apparent that it's almost like Dan’s living out some kind of bizarre relationship through the texts. The fictionalised, fantasy Jean-Éric appears to be okay with Dan sending him messages in the middle of the night to tell him he’s _so fucking hard for him._ , presumably replies, but the responses go unwritten; he has to fill in the blanks himself. Dan’s living vicariously through a drafts folder on a stupid Red Bull-sponsored phone, has been for over a year, and it would be more ridiculous if the texts weren’t so _hot._

Is this what he’s been thinking of every time he’s looked at Jean-Éric?

He’d never thought Dan could be so filthy, if he’s entirely honest. Some of his ideas are beyond what Jean-Éric could ever visualise, no matter put into characters on a tiny screen and save. Without a _fucking password_ , his brain helpfully supplies,. It’s hard to associate Dan and his wide grins and his easy manner with these words, these phrases that wouldn’t ever be spoken outside of in a whisper in the bedroom.

But now he’s struck with the realisation that when Dan’s eyes flick over him in the garage he’s not trying to work out if Jean-Éric spent an extra hour in the gym, he’s imagining stripping him out of his t-shirt and racesuit and licking the line of his abs, sucking lightly on his nipples, biting at his collarbones. Leaving hickeys on the line of his jaw.

Jesus.

 

The next one Jean-Éric reads, and he’s probably skipped over a few by way of his sweaty hands skating over the phone’s screen, says _Winner gets to fuck loser ok_. The date syncs up with Singapore. Jean-Éric had to retire in that race; Dan didn’t do half badly.

The next three are all continuations of that idea. _Damn,_ the first says, _I wanted you in me tonight. Wanted you to fuck me. Maybe I’ll still let you, ride you hard until you can’t remember your lap time_ and then the next, _I love having my ass fucked. My fingers aren’t the same as a cock_ and then the last, _I fucked myself with my fingers the other day thinking about you. Wondered how it’d feel if it was you instead. I like your hands, you know that? I want to feel your fingers inside me_

It’s typical explicit sex chat, the sort of thing you get on late-night XXX channels and sex lines. It’s not the sort of thing that usually turns Jean-Éric on, too fake and cliché; he'd prefer to just _get on with it_ , no need for preamble. It's perhaps not the most romantic or daring way to go about it, but then Jean-Éric can think of better things to do with mouths.

But somehow when it’s Dan who’s written these things, it works.

Jean-Éric realises with a jolt that he’s uncomfortably hard, straining against his jeans, and – okay, that’s unexpected. Unexpected but familiar, and whilst he can’t quite shake the guilt he feels when he slides his hand down to rest on his thigh, rub at his stomach just above his crotch, he can’t help himself either. He bites his lip.

His fingers are splayed out on the rough fabric of his jeans, and unconsciously his gaze wanders down to them. He wonders when exactly Dan had been looking at them - during testing? In the factory, when they'd signed documents and carefully handled car parts? 

God, Dan had thought about his fingers _inside him_.

Fuck, that's - but no, no, there’s no way he’s jerking off to dirty texts. He’s above that, at least.

No way.

He rubs the heel of his hand across his fly as he reads, _When you told me to shut up in the garage I wanted to tell you to make me. With your cock right there in front of everyone. Force me onto my knees, gag me with it. Come in my mouth so that all I could taste during the race was you,_ cups his cock through the fabric and rocks gently up into his own palm.

The room is silent but he hardly notices the low groan that slips from his mouth.

It's not enough, not really, but he doesn't allow himself any more just yet. Spends a while longer just pressing down, not quite enjoying the too-little friction provided through the two layers of clothing. He's teasing himself, but he doesn't know how long he'll last if he doesn't. 

A part of his brain he's desperately trying to ignore is telling him that this is what Dan would do. Dan's naturally a tease; why wouldn't he be in the bedroom? He'd let Jean-Éric touch himself through his clothing and watch with hooded eyes, grin and tell him _no_ good-naturedly when Jean-Éric begs to be allowed more. He'd want him on the edge, not uncomfortable but a little desperate.

Arousal’s pooled low in his stomach, making his breath short and ragged. Jean-Éric undoes the button and the zipper of his jeans, hitches his hips up to tug them over his arse as he reads a message from the end of last season. _Ok so you beat me in the rankings. Guess I’ll just have to fuck you to even it out_

God, right now he wouldn’t object. Precome is staining the front of his briefs; he squeezes his cock through the fabric, enjoying the drag of the soft cotton over the sensitive skin. Imagines it’s Dan’s hand, not his.

_I want to hear you scream, Jev. I want to hear what you sound like when you’re getting fucked_

Jean-Éric shoves his underwear down one-handed, ungainly but practical, and wraps a hand around his cock. It's gratifying, to finally have the pressure first-hand, the feel of skin on skin. He strokes himself slowly, torturously so; he doesn't want this to be over too quickly.

He reads the text again. He’d probably sound a little like he does now; he hasn’t got much experience to compare it to, at least not in the getting-fucked arena, not in years. Right now, as he feverishly works his cock, he’s moaning, muttering out curse words in an amalgamation of French and English. His breathing is heavy and audible, in sync with the slick wet noise of his hand as he jerks himself.

Jean-Éric reaches around to rub a wet finger across the sensitive skin behind his balls. The simple touch is enough to make him shiver. He’s in way over his head, and when he presses that same finger against his hole ever-so-lightly his whole body jerks, his cock twitching.

_Fuck I want you to talk dirty to me. Your accent turns me on_

_What’s ‘I’m going to fuck you so hard you can’t sit down for days’ in French?_

_Just your accent btw, I don’t get hard talking to Romain or anything_

His underwear is around his knees now and he’s tugging roughly at his cock, no coordination, even as he huffs out a broken laugh. The texts are so stupid, so bloody _Dan_  - he’s talking about Romain immediately after coming on to him, who even does that – but somehow that just turns him on even more, to know that Dan wrote these just for him. They’re not some kind of fill-in-the-blanks porno chat, it’s Dan’s stream-of-consciousness.

He didn't know that idea could be so hot.

Jean-Éric rubs his thumb across the head of his cock, smearing his fingers with slick before continuing to jerk himself. God knows what he must look like, some kind of wanton slut: hips helplessly thrusting upwards, bracing himself against the back of the sofa, head tipped back to expose the line of his throat, mouth open in a wide- _o_ as he groans, one hand wrapped around his cock – in the other, Dan’s phone clutched so hard his knuckles are white. He's so close when he circles the head of his cock with a forefinger and thumb, flicking another over the slit; pleasure makes him almost shiver, and he does it again. Like this he can almost pretend it isn't his hand. 

And he still can’t believe he’s getting off on these texts.

_You must be gagging for it by now. I bet you love sucking cock. Would you beg me for it?_

_You’d look beautiful with your face covered in my come, baby_

Jean-Éric’s hips jerk up involuntarily at that, and he’s pretty sure he just whimpered. He can’t believe Dan’s doing this to him. He jerks himself a little faster, a little rougher. He’s close, so _close._ He almost wishes he wasn’t, wishes he could control himself a little more so that he could stumble into his bedroom and find the near-empty lube he keeps in his bottom drawer and finger himself slow. Work himself open with slick fingers, press against that one spot that makes him cry out and grind down. He’d drag it out, shut to his eyes so he could pretend like they were Dan’s long fingers and not his own.

The words on the phone’s screen are starting to blur together and he has to hold the phone closer to even make sense of them now.

_If I was there right now I’d make you touch yourself for me_

_I bet you look so beautiful when you come, Jev_

He doesn’t feel beautiful right now, he feels shaky and wrecked and like he’s going to fall apart at any minute. He’s thrusting helplessly into his fist; his motions are frantic and desperate, motivated purely by a primal need. Jean-Éric’s sweat-slick fingers slip across the phone to the next text and –

It can’t be right, because –

His hand’s still sliding up and down his cock, the motion almost involuntarily with his need, but he barely even notices because he’s just read what Dan wrote and it’s -

_God, I love you_

Jean-Éric arches his back and curls his toes and lets his hand slip off his cock because he’s coming. His cock is pulsing, his balls tightening as a long guttural groan lets itself loose from his throat. He doesn’t care what he looks like or if the people upstairs can hear him, is solely focused on coming and Dan, always _Dan._

When he’s finished, head spinning and thighs wet, he drops back against the sofa cushions again.

 _Jesus fucking christ,_ he thinks, because it’s easier to just curse than it is to try and think through the semantics of the situation, of what _god, I love you_ means, and rubs at the drying mess near his crotch with his hand.

And then he laughs, shakily, because he just got _come_ on Dan’s phone.

**Author's Note:**

> eta: oh my god, guys, I can't believe the reaction this has had. You've all been so lovely, and I'm genuinely delighted that someone enjoyed it. Of course, it's really Dan and Jev we've to thank for being so damn heartbreaking and cute and _writable_.
> 
> In response to your comments, I am considering a sequel! There are actually a few tidbits I wrote before posting this that didn't make it into this edit, in addition to a sketchy outline of what happens at Spa. We'll see!


End file.
